


To You Who Loved Me

by unintentionallyangsty



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintentionallyangsty/pseuds/unintentionallyangsty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reflection of sorts from the point of view of an eight-year-old Merlin Emrys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To You Who Loved Me

“Why do you hold your hands like that?” I’m always asked.  
“My hands aren’t weird! I don’t hold them any differently than you do.” I say back, feeling my large ears growing hot in defensiveness already. I think I must shout, because they always look at me with wide and scared eyes and walk away, like I’ve hurt their feelings somehow. Like I was the one to point out that something about _them_ was funny.  
Everything about me is funny. And they always point it out to me. “Your ears are too big.” And I _know_ that. I’ve tried to make them shrink, tried to push them down and wear different hats that hide them. But they just stay that way, and the hats make them look even bigger.  
“Your son is so solemn for only eight years old.” I’ll hear my mother’s friends mumble when they think I’m distracted by a book or video. “He should really get out more, he’s so pale.” and, “Look at the way he holds his hands.”

I am _not_ solemn for my age. Or odd. Or any of those things those fat old ladies say about me. I’m only pale because I don’t go outside and play when it’s warm like everyone else wants to. I want to be inside to protect my mum when father decides to yell. Nobody else protects her. Her friends don’t. So I have to.  
And I _do not_ hold my hands weirdly.

I am not weird. I’m normal. I just don’t like to do the things that other kids my age like to do. No, I don’t want to play football or rugby when I grow up. I don‘t want to play pretend, either. I only ever wanted to play pretend with Arthur. Sometimes he was the king, and I was a knight. He wanted to make me a servant, but I told him I was a better knight. Sometimes we were both knights. Arthur never let me be king. But that was okay, because he was a better king than I ever would have been anyway. Arthur looked like a king; his hair was gold just like a king’s crown should be. I told him once that he was born to be a king. He just turned red and told me that the other seven year olds didn’t talk the way that I did. But he didn’t mind. He was my friend anyway. With my big ears and all.

But he’s gone now, so I don’t want to play pretend anymore.

One time I told Arthur about the way that father just lost his temper sometimes, and yelled and sometimes even hit if he was really angry. I thought that he’d decide not to be my friend anymore, once he saw the ugly red mark on my face. It was worse than the ears. But he didn’t. He put ice on my cheek, instead, and told me that he’d take care of me, and that nobody would hurt me ever again. I think he was lying to make me feel better. But I did feel better. I always felt better when Arthur was there. With me.

If he were here now, Arthur wouldn’t have said that I hold my hands weirdly. He would have held my hand tightly, he always would, when father yelled and mother cried like they forgot that Arthur and I were there in the room, and that we weren’t supposed to hear words like “fuck”. I think that they _did_ forget sometimes. So Arthur would take me outside to play pretend. And we’d defeat dragons and save princesses until the yelling and crying stopped.

I don’t think father liked Arthur much. He couldn’t have. Not since he made us move so far away from him.

Now nobody is there to hold my hand when father is yelling. So sometimes, I _do_ play pretend, I guess. Sometimes my hand is Arthur’s, and he’s holding mine again. So my hands are _not_ odd. They are Arthur’s and mine.

**Author's Note:**

> Title mostly borrowed from the peom "To You Who Hurt Me" by Helen Rottier.  
> This is my first little ficlet in the fandom! Testing the water and such. Reviews are très appréciée! Merci. :)


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